


We Make Our Own Sun

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You taste like summer,” Louis tells her, drawing his tongue up the inside of her bicep, and Eleanor smiles. “You taste like summer,” he repeats softly, to himself. “like sun and a sky without clouds.” </p><p>“Harry tastes like sea,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Make Our Own Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent schmoopy ot3. S has been complaining for months that she wanted Harry/Louis/Eleanor, and she finally sucked it up and wrote it herself. You're welcome, you monsters. This is set in a 'verse where they've been A Thing for quite a while, and celebrate the boys' VMA win in their own way.

Eleanor’s been watching them for an hour before she finally sets her book down. It’s only mid-afternoon, but everything feels lazy and slow, sun-sleepy, and her body’s gone warm, first signal of a tan blooming to life across her arms and chest and up her neck. She takes a final sneaky picture of them; Louis is stretched across Harry’s shoulders, tugging at his hair, and they go under in a splash, come up kissing. It’s probably a shit picture, but Eleanor can worry about that later. For now she has the real thing. 

They don’t notice her approach until she’s at the water’s edge, dipping her toes into the cool water and wrinkling her nose. Louis cheers and Harry does some little dance, movements slowed and awkward, weighed down by the water swirling around his waist. Eleanor lets herself be drawn to them, first by the receding tide, sucking at her ankles, then by their hands, greedy like the sea. 

;

There’s a tiny television on the counter in Cal’s kitchen, and Eleanor comes downstairs to the sound of American laughter, fuzzing to life from the built-in speakers. Harry is humming something under his breath at the sink, washing strawberries, and she leans into his side to steal one, pop it into her mouth. It tastes extra sweet, chasing the sleep off her tongue, and she noses into his shoulder, hums _good morning_ back at him. 

They make an omelette with bacon and green onions- they don’t have anything else in the vegetable drawer, little else in the fridge altogether. “Have to go shopping,” Harry mumbles into her hair, and Eleanor smiles. They’re slowly moving around the kitchen as one, Harry plastered against her back, his arms around her waist as she breaks eggs, chops onions, reaches for the spatula. It’s inefficient, maybe, awkward when they have to back up to walk around the table to the fridge, but Harry doesn’t let go. Eleanor doesn’t ask him to. 

“You look a bit like that rat and the chef from that movie,” Louis says from the doorway at the base of the stairs. He looks all made of soft lines and light, this early, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his stomach, hair in his eyes. “Ratatouille, innit?” 

Harry huffs a laugh, and Eleanor squirms in his arms, his breath ticklish against her ear. “Excuse you,” she says. “don’t you mean, ‘thank you for my breakfast, oh, most beautiful and generous deities, who have so graced me with your underserved affection’?” 

Louis smiles, and slides into a seat at the wobbly kitchen table.  

; 

It’s later, when Harry is doing the washing up in the sink, that Louis picks her up and settles her on the narrow counter next to the telly, pulls his own boxers off her hips and leaves them hanging off her ankle, presses her open with his fingers, whispers _my goddess_ into the crease of her thigh. 

Harry drops a plate, and they’re all breathless with laughter and sex before ten a.m.. 

; 

It’s late afternoon, and the boys have been in the water again- Eleanor takes more pictures, checks them on the screen of Harry’s camera and they’re _good_. They’re not like the Australia photos, the only other shots of the boys swimming together that Eleanor’s seen; those were taken by eyes for hire and zoomed in, greedy for the money shot. These are about the moment; the expanse of empty beach and the blue of the ocean and sky and the gold of Louis’ skin, the bright orange of Harry’s trunks in the water. The way Harry’s hands look, peeling Louis’ wetsuit down his chest, the laughter in their faces as they call to her. 

This time they don’t wait for her to lose interest in Gatsby, come for her instead with dripping hands and sneaky, little boy smiles. Louis picks her up and Harry jogs alongside them, back into the surf, and they tumble headfirst into the oncoming waves. “You little _shit_ ,” Eleanor gasps, pushing water and hair out of her face as she comes up between them, Harry’s hands on her waist, Louis’ grin insistent as he leans in to kiss the corner of her mouth. She hits his arm and he raises his eyebrows, daring. They spend half an hour splashing and roughhousing in the waist-deep sea, until he catches her around the waist and she turns to push him away, gets caught up in kisses instead. 

She reaches behind her for Harry, and he’s there like he’s been waiting, arms big enough to hold both of them steady in the waves. 

; 

“You taste like summer,” Louis tells her, drawing his tongue up the inside of her bicep, and Eleanor smiles. “You taste like summer,” he repeats softly, to himself. “like sun and a sky without clouds.” 

“Harry tastes like sea,” she whispers, like it’s a secret. They both glance over at him, curled in a wicker armchair, his phone tucked into his palm, fingertips twitching against his bare thigh. The slight breeze crossing Cal’s porch ruffles his curls, but he doesn’t stir. 

“Housecat,” Louis murmurs, fondly, and Eleanor raises an eyebrow at him. “Not-” Louis rolls his eyes, runs his sharp front teeth over the round of her shoulder. “Doesn’t _taste_ like a cat, silly. Looks it, though, doesn’t he?” 

“Looks like ours,” Eleanor says, and tilts Louis’ chin up until their lips meet. 

; 

That night they spread a quilt on the soft, dry sand not far from the house. It’s still warm from the sun, combats the light breeze that’s picked up, rolling in off the sea. Eleanor lays on her back counting stars in one of Harry’s tee-shirts and her bathing suit bottoms that she’s kept on all day, and they watch her arms cover in goosebumps, her nipples press against the white cotton of the shirt. 

Harry spreads out beside her, propped on one arm, and plays with the tangle of her hair, fallen above her head and down around her shoulders. She’s let it get long, and it’s going lighter with the California sun. “Mermaid,” he says, and she laughs, reaches up to trace his jaw with one fingertip. 

Louis watches them from the edge of the blanket, fingers loose around his glass of boxed-wine. They make a single, beautiful, deadly creature like this; waving hair and deep eyes, hungry plush mouths and sharp bones, long graceful limbs pressed up together. 

Eleanor closes her eyes and Harry is saying soft, laughing words against her ear now, and Louis’ mouth stumbles over the shape of his wants. “You should fuck her,” he says, and they look over as one, Harry’s teeth showing behind his spit-shiny lips and Eleanor’s amusement tucked up in the corner of her mouth. 

“Condom’s in the house,” Harry says, simply, and Eleanor huffs a laugh. Louis wonders if they’re both aware as he is of the way this place makes them reckless: not in deed, Eleanor’s taken care of herself since long before she met Louis, and condoms are just a secondary precaution, more a helpmeet to convenience; but in thought, drastically. Louis’ tongue and heart both want to say, _would it be so bad if,_ and he knows it’s this empty beach, this quiet solitary evening, easing him into thoughts five years too early. 

He chokes it back, even though he knows that Eleanor has already heard it. Her eyes glitter in the dusk. “So pull out,” he says, instead, because it’s crude and silly and _safe_ , and Eleanor laughs, pulling Harry in for a kiss with fingers tight through the chain of his crucifix. 

“Don’t you want to-” Harry asks, in the in between, when they’ve both pulled themselves upright, and Eleanor is wriggling out of her swimsuit bottom, when Harry has his shirt around his chest and is pulling his arms free. 

Eleanor glances at Louis and he shakes his head. “I want to watch,” he says, and Harry nods, trusting, content. 

He opens her up with two fingers slick with his spit, sucks the noises off her tongue and pulls her lower lip into his mouth with the moan she can’t quite help, and Louis watches until they blur in the dark. One. 

When Harry loses his rhythm against her she bites at his mouth, and he pulls out to come across her stomach, her graceful fingers pressing his cock against her skin and shifting his foreskin through a mess shiny wet as the reflection of moonlight on waves. 

; 

Afterwards, Harry carries her up to the house as Louis gathers up the wine glasses and the quilt, and the three of them cram into Cal’s shower. Eleanor leans against Louis’ side, backed up against the tile, and Harry takes turns kissing them both as he jerks Louis off, big hand slippery with her conditioner. 

They fall asleep tangled loosely in cool cotton sheets, Harry’s legs through Eleanor’s, Louis’ arm over Harry’s side. Louis dreams about bright, childish laughter filling up the beach, and Eleanor smiles in her sleep. Harry’s fingers tighten on her hip. 

 


End file.
